The Truth
by contrazero
Summary: On the eve of Dumbledore's death, a body drops from the ceiling of the Gryffindor Common Room. Limp, bloodied, heavy beyond measure, but familiar - reminiscent of the young first year that befriended them all those years ago...And yet, so much has changed that this cannot possibly be the Edward Elric they once knew.
1. prologue

They don't really talk about it much today, but sometimes he still dreams of it.

It was the year of his eleventh birthday, six after the death of his mother, five after he had finalized his resolve, two weeks before he would make the choice. It was then, in the warm July air, that he miscalculated.

He placed his energy, his life, into the wrong equation, something was wrong, something was off, his practice circle glowed a horrendous _green_ \- and then...Then, it was gone. No longer could he hear the sound of his own screams or feel the summer breeze on his back. No longer was he being unraveled, piece by piece, limb from limb.

And he remembered the Truth, remembered sitting before it again, but heard nothing, saw nothing, simply awoke somewhere new.

Still screaming, he had rushed upwards in bed.

"Oh dear, settle down now, settle down…"

A hand placated him, stroking his hair, soothing his aching lungs. The violent noise ceased, and his eyes, for the first time, adjusted.

He didn't know Molly Weasley then, but as he came to, she became something of a second mother. She fed him, and dressed him, and scolded him, always asking,

"Are you sure you're from.. _.Amestris_?"

"I think he's got amnesia, Molly - doesn't seem to remember much else."

Oh but he did remember - the face of his brother, the fallen form of his mother, Winry and Pinako's warm presences…

They introduced him to their children ("'m Ron. Are you a first year, too?), some he liked better than others ("Wee shorty Eddy-kins"), and promised him education, food, a home. All because he had appeared on their front step, unconscious. All because he was lost.

But here, here did not feel like home. Here, he felt like a germ, some kind of parasite that sucked the life out of everyone else, that did not belong.

When the first day of school rolled around, after he had his wand, after he received his letter ("He _is_ a wizard! I knew it!), they met Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Neville Longbottom. They sat on the train, Harry, Ron, and Edward, (interruptions by Hermione) and ate sweets to their heart's content.

("Are the teachers at this school scary? The last teacher I had….")

And when the sorting hat sat on his head, he knew, invariably, what he wished to be, who he wished to be with, in camaraderie of house.

"Gryffindor!" the hat cheered. A cacophony of cheers rose from one table, polite clapping from two others.

For a year, through trial and tribulation, classes and matters of Philosopher's Stones ("No way! You guys have those?!"), he struggled to keep his secret, and investigate matters of return. But there was no transdimensional magic. And after reading half of the library, he found himself too tired most nights to function in actual classes (but he shouldn't care about actual classes - he should care about _home_ ).

At least, he thought to himself many a time, at least his alchemy still worked.

Not that it was useful. Harry still had to face off with Voldemort, and he still ended up at his hospital bedside, apologizing because he wasn't there.

"What're you sorry for? It turned out okay," the child said with a grin.

Edward didn't respond.

But it seemed, inevitably, that things really did turn out okay. The year ended with a bang (he even scored some house points just for being there), and almost like a passing gust of wind, Edward Elric disappeared over the summer.

The reality is that truth unraveled him before he even had a chance to say goodbye. And when he returned to his true home, to Alphonse and Winry and Pinako, not even a day had passed in sunny Resembool.

("There you are, Brother! I was beginning to think you'd gone missing.")

If only he knew.

But there were things to get back to, plans to realize, and hopefully, in the end, things would be okay here, too.

After all, what could go wrong?


	2. dear alphonse,

**1910**

The air stunk. Edward had smelt the Curtis' meat shop before, had experienced first hand rotten flesh and maggoty hides, and this - this was no different. It was the scent of decomposing life, the scent of something that no longer belonged in this world, and was slowly being written out.

Apparently, his left leg fell into that category.

For losing it, the pain was something less than he had expected; rather than harsh, electric, or ragged, it was a dull, deep-rooted ache. It was quiet against the roaring of his mind (yes, this could work! I just need the armor) and the hoarseness of his voice (GIVE HIM BACK! HE'S ALL I HAVE LEFT!), but it was strong. Stronger than his fear of the thing in the middle of the room, definitely not his mother. Stronger than the worry of losing his own life...The pain motivated him.

So through the rivers of blood he clawed, the basement floor slick and hot as he relied on upper body strength to move him. Past the thing, with its impossible radiating heat, past the spot where Al had been just seconds ago, past the worn out lines of a transmutation circle that had, in one fell swoop, taken everything. No - Edward wouldn't let it.

Prepared to give the world, he carved his brother's seal in blood.

* * *

("What about your parents, Ed?" Seamus asked, face lit in the candlelight of the great hall. It was here that they are their first dinner as a school, after being sorted into respective houses. Gryffindor was his own, apparently, which all the Weasleys had gushed on about.

"I dunno," he shrugged, because he honestly didn't at the moment. Hoenheim could be dead. Trisha was…for sure.

"You dunno if they're muggle born?" asked another Gryffindor, incredulously.

"Nah, I'm sure they were, I just don't have any."

Murmurs broke out amongst them. Harry, whom he had shared a train compartment with, met his gaze with not sympathy, but understanding. For that, he was grateful, though he made no such move to express it.

"Er, sorry," said the kid.

"Nah, it's fine," grinned Ed, which the other children must have taken as a queue to ask more questions because shortly after, another inquired,

"Are you American? You've an accent."

And another: "You're an orphan?"

"How can you have no parents if you have a last name?"

Ed wasn't sure what American was, or how to answer any of those questions safely - he'd mainly been using the excuse of amnesia with the Weasleys, and with Dumbledore, who had come to investigate his first week there - so he was glad when the headmaster himself declared the meal to be over and vanished their food. Silence befell the hall, and they were whisked away to their dormitories. It almost made him nostalgic for the good old days of elementary school.)

* * *

His breath was stagnant and warm, circulating back into his own face with every slow gasp. That was how he awoke, with a rag in his mouth, and his tongue taking up far too much space. Over his eyes was another cloth, dampened and cool; he tried to lift his arm to move it, but nothing happened.

It was then that the memories of the basement inundated his sluggish brain. Never in his life had he ever felt so much regret.

As he lay there, too tired and defeated to even move, he wondered if they had left him to die. If Granny and Winry had decided that his life was no longer worth it. If Al had disowned him as family and set off to find a cure for his own body. He hoped he had. At least then, there would be progress.

As it was now, Edward was only holding him back (this was all he could process - _it'smyfaultit'smyfaultit'smyfault_ \- as shock and anesthesia warped his perception greatly). His own pain didn't register, only the fear, the fear and the dreaded regret.

(If magic worked in this world, it would solve all of their problems. His notes on the subject remained tucked securely away in his room, never to see the light of day when he discovered their uselessness. Cruel, how alchemy could function there, but magic...Magic was fickle (or maybe i'm just crazy...there's no way to prove it…).)

Again, he slept, tears tracing their way down his cheeks. Dreams of the Weasleys and Harry Potter overcame him. Later, he would be jolted back to reality by his own muffled grunts and the shocking pain of his wounds being treated. Automail, he decided - he would get automail.

* * *

 **1913**

("Hey Mustang, you wouldn't know anything about…")

(Spit it out, Fullmetal, I don't have all day.")

("...Nevermind, it's nothing.")

* * *

 **1915**

The years had been long, long and difficult, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't enjoy them. Yet, at the back of his mind, there was always the lingering 'what ifs'. As soon as he got Al's body back, he would discover what had happened so long ago, how he had been ripped from the very fabric of reality.

He decided this for certain, just days before he met Solf J. Kimblee.

* * *

He didn't like Solf J. Kimblee. At all.

The bastard had turned his own mercy around on him, sent him tumbling into the snowy abyss below. He was just lucky he hadn't been injured - he felt fine, and he was decently sure that the white blanket had broken his fall, so it-

Shit.

His cursory glance back at his own form had proven to be very disheartening. Dripping from his abdomen in gloppy portions, thick with tissue and severed veins, was crimson blood. Though he'd seen more than enough violence in his lifetime, the sight still painfully triggered his gag reflex - his muscles tensed, he froze, onto the snow he hacked rivulets of blood.

Oh no, this was bad. This was very bad. But he still had a goal to accomplish.

No, he couldn't die here, _no way, no way, no way._

Some of Kimblee's men were in the corner, but he wasn't sure they could make it in time, and he still had the giant fucking pipe embedded in his stomach and he was beginning to panic despite it all and goddamnit - he had the worst fucking luck.

Taking shaky breaths, he opened his mouth to try to communicate to the chimera men, but nothing came out, only more and more and more blood.

So he made a split second decision. If he couldn't speak, then he would have to fix it himself, starting by disintegrating the beam. (He just had to make sure he didn't end up with a pile of ash in his intestines - easier said than done.)

Or maybe he should begin by trying to fix the internal damage, while the beam held his skin open and away?

Or maybe -

Oh screw it, his mind was getting foggier by the second, and attempting to seal his organs would work towards stopping that. Drawing as deep a breath as he could, Edward calmed his roaring thoughts. He put, on the back burner, the horrid memories that always pervaded, the promises he'd given to so many, the image of Winry's toothy smile, and worst of all, he cleared the days that he, Hoenheim, Al and his mother spent together. The ones of family and wholeness and simple times.

The ones before a place called Hogwarts or the pain of mutilated bodies.

And with another long exhale, he pressed his fingers to his own chest; the light that surged from within it was near blinding.

The next thing he knew, before him was the gate of Truth.

* * *

The crowd watched, with bated breath, as Harry and Ginny shared a rather public kiss. The excitement was still high after the match with Ravenclaw, Ron's fingers still wrapped tightly around the winning cup, and a sort of half-smile plastered onto his face, but things were wilting.

Funny how such a happy event could be momentarily soiled by something so mundane as Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley.

But if they thought their drama was a true problem, it was about to get a whole lot worse; Hermione, despite her enthusiasm, was the first to note the glowing ceiling.

"What's that?" came her voice, a brutal shock to the tension.

Sure enough, lines, intricate, detailed, and low, were tracing themselves within the common room, painting the deep red a luminescent blue. They were not recognizable runes nor were they anything directly pertaining to magic, despite their appearance, so although it was indeed frightening, no one moved a muscle.

Not until the blue turned a horrifying shade of green, the kind of green that emanated sickness and a sense of...displacement, and indicated that something had to be wrong.

People began to rush out of the room, backing away, screaming, yelling for professors and Dumbledore, and that it was surely an attack from Voldemort. The students closest to the portrait hole made it safely away in time, but those who stepped out of the way to guide others through, those like Harry, Neville, Ron, Hermione...

They bore witness to the true fright as a body, limp, and saturated in crimson, crashed to the floor.

Everyone stood still. The body did not move either.

And so, bravely, taking advantage of the lack of movement from both parties, Hermione rushed to the side of the fallen girl (? the long, golden braid...surely feminine…).

"Don't!" cried Harry, wand out and pointed at the figure. "It could be Voldemort's."

The flinch at the name was audible, and those who hadn't fled, began to, much more quietly this time.

Hermione, however, didn't listen. Instead, she turned the surprisingly heavy body on its side, trying to catch a glimpse of its face (she noted that there was a grievous wound in its abdomen, a hole of sorts that forced bile to her throat). Pieces of blonde hair stubbornly stuck to their cheeks and forehead, but she brushed them aside to find-

By the time Dumbledore arrived, it was to find a sniffling Hermione and the body of a student he had once known all too well. Grimly, the common room was evacuated and Edward Elric's barely breathing body moved to the hospital wing.

* * *

The only thing he could think when he awoke was that it was as if he were eleven again and arousing to the lack of two limbs and everyone he ever loved. The pain was comparable.

But no, thankfully, it would never - could never - be that.

Instead, it was to the sight of what must have been another dream. Strange, he'd never been quite so lucid when he recalled the sights of Hogwarts, but here he was, in the Hospital Wing, expecting Dream Madame Pomfrey to pop out at any minute. He remembered how she'd shooed them away from Harry so many times. It was actually really annoying.

But he didn't have time for dreaming. He was supposed to be doing something right…? Supposed to be…

 _Shit, shit, shit, shi-_

Edward flung back the covers, pulled up his hospital shirt and gaped at the smaller-than-it-should-be hole in his gut. Huh.

Wait. He had his metal arm, too, and yep (he checked) the leg. So this couldn't be a dream. So he was back...in Hogwarts…

So he'd really screwed up (again).

Then came the franticness - he searched desperately for Winry's earrings, which should have been tucked into the pocket of his jacket, but he couldn't find that either, or his pocket watch, or his journal, or heavy boots, or anything.

He attempted to stand and search for his things, but that ended very poorly, and with him on the ground, in an ungraceful way.

Lucky him, that was when Madame Pomfrey decided to reappear, jabbering on about the different types of treatments she had decided to use for him, and then - "And look at these! They're incredible, never seen anything like them...Metal limbs!" - to whom he assumed was probably Dumbledore in tow.

Oh god, this had to be a dream.

But then, he'd seen actual god, and created something sentient from (just) an arm and a leg and his little brother's body, and he'd been within the stomach of a homunculus. Repeated transdimensional travelling shouldn't be that difficult to believe...right?

"Oh dear, what're you doing on the floor?!" Madame Pomfrey rushed over, leaning to help him up; he brushed her off, though and stood, nursing his sore abs with his metal hand.

"I'm fine," he said casually, though he'd never been more stressed in his life. The moment he turned to Dumbledore, however, things fell apart just a bit in his composure. The old man was the epitome of 'wizard' and it only solidified the entire situation - not to mention, the severity of the other's own countenance was a bit unnerving, to say the least.

"Hello Edward," the headmaster said. "It is good to see you again, though I must say, your method of travel is rather cumbersome."

"Wish I could say the same," Ed grumbled, ignoring the last half of the statement. "But I'm not supposed to be here."

Blue eyes peered starkly at him from above their glasses; he knew his journey was a story he would be forced to tell. The subtle pokes into his mind were enough to indicate that Dumbledore was attempting to read it.

"Poppy, if you could give us some privacy, please."

"But Headmaster-"

"Just half an hour, I would say," Dumbledore promised.

Poppy didn't look happy, but soon enough Edward was left with the ancient man. He supposed that after all these years, maybe he was due a rough explanation. After all, with the small amount of wizards, he was sure his disappearance must have garnered some kind of attention.

Relaxing back onto the bed, but keeping his guard up (mental and physical), Edward led with,

"I'm sure you've kind of guessed already, but I'm not from this world."

There - Ed could pinpoint the exact moment Dumbledore's eyes lost their twinkle entirely and he suddenly became poker-faced and stern. He had his attention.

"Not from this world?" the old man repeated. "I'll admit, I had my speculations, but…"

"What, the metal leg and arm aren't proof enough?" snapped the boy, agitated. But Dumbledore didn't mean any harm. He recognized that and slumped down. "The first time I came was an accident, too. I was just testing out an alchemy theory, and then I suddenly woke up at the Burrow...I didn't believe it either, but you guys are in a different year, you have different technology, an entirely new world map…" Golden eyes became far away as they recalled the past. "But I knew I could make it home, I would just have to find some way to replicate my mistake. Only… I got distracted. How couldn't I? It was a new world. And then I met Harry Potter, and I learned how to perform magic, and things got even worse. Before I could even make it back to the Burrow, though…"

He furrowed his brow and Dumbledore leaned in, intently listening.

"I was taken back."

"Taken? By what?"

"Who knows?" Ed lied airily. He could never tell if Dumbledore knew though - his eyes were far too evasive of true emotion.

With the basic outline of the story done, the both of them leaned back in their respective seats, Ed releasing a harsh breath, the headmaster completely silent.

"Very well," he finally said (their eye contact felt strange and…uncomfortable, so Edward warded all the mental barriers he could).

"And your wound?"

At this, the boy looked away with a wince, "I got impaled for doing something stupid."

"By what, might I ask?"

"A support beam."

Silently, the headmaster handed him a bag of candy as consolation, prompting an unbecoming snort from his old student.

"I don't think Flavored Beans'll be getting me out of this one."

"Perhaps not," he said, "But it's important to consider the light within every dark situation."

Even though Edward knew the old man wasn't 100% on it, and that he probably still thought he was one of Voldie's (was that his name again?) followers, he could appreciate his momentary kindness.

"Thanks," Ed mumbled.

"For what?"

"For not throwing me on the streets."

Dumbledore contemplated this sadly, wondering what kind of life he'd led in his absence, and even then, before. Edward was correct that he couldn't fully trust him, not with a war waging on, but he was inclined to believe that what he said was the truth. And if he were capable of travel through walls, as his appearance had suggested, then it would be safer to keep him here, within sight. So the headmaster said, simply,

"There is always a place within Hogwarts for those who need it." He took a piece of candy. "You are a sixth year now, are you not?"


	3. i'm sorry

Around him sprawled an endless landscape of white, appearing just as instantly as air forced its way back into his lungs. In, out, in, out - he caught his breath with difficulty, the atmosphere light but penetrating all the same. It was the presence of the gate, looming with sheer certainty; beyond it lay the greatest of all knowledge. Before it lay a boy, a boy with two missing limbs and immeasurable determination. Stains of blood and stains of grief marred his chiseled, but young face. From it pulled a worn frown, and Edward clenched his chattering teeth.

"You know this isn't what I meant to do!" he shouted explosively, at the nothingness around him.

But then, born from it, was a white figure, outlined in black haze and approximately a reflection of Edward himself; it bore a flesh leg and arm.

"You forget," said the creature, in one million voices and in one, leering, "that you are the one who miscalculated, Mr. Alchemist."

Though he felt rage seep through his very veins, Ed unclenched his teeth, and balled his fists, and admitted, voice ragged,

"That may be, but I know I couldn't have done this myself."

The creature, Truth, smiled, "Oh? Done what now?"

"Don't play dumb with me!" His voice should have echoed in the vast landscape. Instead, it was dampened dully, the perpetuated anger he sought petering out to a quiet festering. Sensing this, he lowered his volume intentionally (even here, there had to be some things that he could control), "No alchemist has ever crossed dimensions. You had a hand in this, didn't you?"

Truth merely laughed. It was a harsh and disgusting noise, like a chattering sea of screams and nails on chalk.

"How quickly you are to blame!" It waved its arms at the door behind him. "I'm giving you knowledge," it said, as though Ed should be grateful, "Isn't that what all you alchemists crave? A chance at God? An offering of power?"

"If that's all you think we are," Edward seethed lowly, "then you know nothing."

The pearly white teeth of Truth beamed. "I know all," he stated. "For I _am_ all, as well as One, and the Universe, and God, and _you._ "

The words arose poor memories from Edward, who began to stumble backwards at the realization that such a spiel most likely indicated a toll.

"Have fun in your new world, Mr. Alchemist."

From within the horrors of the massive gate shot out hand upon hand upon hand, long and thin and black. They latched onto his arm and leg painfully, they dug into the tender flesh of his stomach. They removed his only choice in this plane, and they pulled him, kicking and screaming, into the gate from which they had been born.

* * *

He saw English.

English and magic and Dumbledore and a school called Hogwarts, one he had near convinced himself was part of a dream, and he saw the answers to _all of it._

* * *

Edward awoke wide-eyed and feeling like he'd just been drowned in a vat of ice water. Chills ran sharply along his spine.

They didn't speak Amestrian. He didn't speak English. Alchemy wasn't the same here (as he had quickly researched first year, before demonstrating...or rather, not demonstrating, as it had turned out). Magic was the word of fairy tales in his world.

In his shock of arriving for the second time, he had disregarded those very important facts. He would have to get home very soon, of his own accord this time, before Truth could change its mind and rip him right back out.

(He was still confused - confused as to why he was here in the first place...unlike the last time, he felt his calculations were correct when he attempted to seal his organs.)

The fear and stress and shock all caught up to him at once (and pain, oh dear god the pain was unforgivable), and he retched over the side of the bed. It was bloody and acidic; he retched again just at the flavor. Unfortunately, judging by the lack of light in the room, it was nighttime, and Madame Pomfrey, contrary to popular belief, slept, so he would have to clean this up himself.

He pulled a Scar on the remains. It felt a bit insulting, and well, _wrong_ to utilize something so advanced for cleaning. But destructed it must be, and he stared at the sterling spot on the floor where the mess once existed.

And then he sighed and lay back on his pillow.

Morning would be here soon. He could collect his thoughts then.

* * *

"I think I know what I saw," repeated Hermione for the millionth time. She was pacing a hole into the carpet, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. With his eyes, Harry tracked her rigid, stressed movements, hoping that she was incorrect with all his heart. Yet, she kept insisting:

"It was Edward, no doubt about it!"

"Well, there's got to be _some_ doubt," countered Ron. "Last I checked, Ed wasn't a _girl._ "

Frustrated, Hermione threw up her arms and froze in place.

"If you'd actually bother to _listen_ to me, you'd know I got a good look at his face, and well…" Here, her own cheeks colored a soft pink. "He's definitely not a girl."

Ron stood now, (this was practically reality TV for Harry - everyone else in the common room had gone to bed, so he was privy to another one of their frequent arguments) "What's that mean?!"

Hermione let out a frustrated groan and began to stomp away. "I'm going to bed! You'll see that I'm right in the morning."

Only when she was safely gone, and the common room suffered only the noise of the crackling fireplace, did Ron dare to say,

"Bloody insufferable, she is." The red-headed boy turned to him, reclining back into one of the plush sofas. "What do _you_ think?"

Harry, who had been silent and intent in his staring contest with the carpet, opened his mouth to speak, but found nothing. Six years ago, Edward had been a dear friend to all of three of them. Noisy, and a bit arrogant, but intelligent beyond all measure, and a staple in their discovery of the sorcerer's stone. But there were also the slightest of discrepancies: the fact that he just appeared outside the burrow, without any knowledge of where he was, how he got there, or his past; the fact that he really was just as genius as Harry said, despite not even knowing what magic really was, and not trying in class whatsoever (this had bothered Hermione to no end); and perhaps most of all, the fact that at the end of the year, when Harry had vanquished Voldemort, and exposed Quirrel, when they had discussed the results of all with Dumbledore, Edward had, for a split second, looked _crushed_ that the sorcerer's stone had been destroyed.

And then he had disappeared.

Ron had told them over mail (mail which Harry didn't recieve until long after anyway, but mail regardless), about how Edward had been there at the burrow one day, and then the next, he was not.

No one knew where he went. Dumbledore, even, was at a loss for the location of Edward Elric, who thundered in and made his own place, only to fizzle out slowly over the years. It was jarring and uncomfortable, and their only option was to assume his death.

So yes, part of him, a very large part, wanted to believe that Edward was still alive, just waiting in the hospital wing.

But instead, he said, "I think she's right, we should wait until morning."

* * *

He knew Madame Pomfrey wouldn't let him go so soon, so he did what he had to - he transmuted himself, while her back was turned, through the floor. As luck would have it, he landed painfully in an empty classroom, his battered body unable to roll and break his fall. Instead, he dropped into a forceful crouch and tipped over for the stress it put on his one real knee.

"Shit," he muttered, clutching his pounding torso. Best not to mess with that.

He managed to stand up alright though (if alright could be constituted as only a little dizziness), and made his way out into the corridor. This, too, was empty.

That meant that A) there was either a quidditch game (which was unlikely at seven in the morning), or B) it was breakfast time. He was inclined to believe the latter, and since it was breakfast time, that meant that Dumbledore, the man he really wanted to discuss more with, was in the Great Hall, too.

Right. He sort of knew where that was.

The fact that the paintings along the walls shouted helpful hints to him was not unwelcome:

"Down and to the left! You're an early riser, aren't you?"

"Straight ahead, my boy!"

"What an _obnoxious_ coat - I do hope you aren't wearing that to breakfast?"

The last painting received a fist in its frame for that - he happened to quite like his coat, and was glad he'd recovered it before sending himself down here. Regardless of what he was wearing, he managed to make it to the Great Hall in less than twenty minutes, a fact he was proud of, for someone who had been away for six years.

Six years, huh.

He thought about Harry and Ron and Hermione and poor, poor Neville, and he wondered what they looked like now, what they would think of him. After all, he had just disappeared. As he stood outside the massive doors, prepared to take the leap, he caught the tail-end of the headmaster's words:

"And I'm happy to announce to you that we will be welcoming back an old friend, one I'm sure many of you will know. He caused quite a stir during his time here," Dumbledore chuckled, and Ed was inclined to agree. "As well as last night…"

Here, the hall became deathly silent. He could hear his own heart beating in his chest, _thump, thump, thump…_

It was important to remember, over everything else, that his objective was to get home.

"Ah," said Dumbledore, as Ed kicked open the doors to the Great Hall. "Here he is now."

"Edward Elric."

Murmurs broke out like he'd never seen before. Sure, he'd been the topic of many rumours in the military, what with his age and status and temperament, but he'd never seen them like this. It seemed that he wasn't missing out on anything, living his life away from those his own age. Especially if the words he did catch on his walk up to Dumbledore were any indication:

"Who's that?"

" _Blimey!_ He looks downright scary…"

"Thought he was a girl, with that hair…"

And worst of all, the giggles from a large grouping of Gryffindor girls.

"Wow, he's really grown!"

He wasn't sure _what_ that meant, but he hoped it wasn't a crack at his height. Avoiding eye contact with all of them, so as not to distract himself, he marched up to the headmaster and said, lowly,

"We need to talk."

Dumbledore nodded, the twinkle back in his eye (Edward caught a glimpse of his hand when his sleeve fell - black and charred and shriveled…).

"Why don't you sit for breakfast first?"

" _Now_ ," Edward said, because he was impatient and needed several important details to be sorted out (where would he stay, what information, besides the general section of the library, would he have access to, etc…).

Dumbledore's smile fell, and he said, near grimly, "Very well."

And just like that, the two of them departed the hall again, leaving a plethora of rumors and uncountable curious expressions. Harry and Ron watched, agape, and Hermione, though she relished in proving herself correct, wore a troubled look.

He seemed very different, she thought, in all the wrong ways.


	4. i got myself in trouble again

He had let his anxiety get the better of him; he hadn't let his anxiety get the better of him in years, not since…

Well, he could hardly remember a time.

All those years ago, Hogwarts had been a whimsical place, full of wonder and the promise of some kind of fulfilled childhood (a temporary cure to the relentless grief that always settled in the back of his mind), but now it was full of staring, looming, impossibly powerful _children_.

He thought of all the things he could personally do, with just one year of magical education, and then what came from the Truth's cheat of knowledge, and he found that he feared his own ability - to think that the room was _full_ of kids the same, with not always good intentions...he shuddered.

As Dumbledore relayed to him that he would live in the boys dormitories, that he would attend regular classes, that he would have to make up those five long years of missed education, Edward sat entranced by the whole situation. Shock was a bad choice of emotion to fall into - then again, it wasn't like he had much of a say in it. These days, he didn't have much of a say in anything.

"Edward, has your mind wondered?"

Golden eyes remained fixated on the wall behind Dumbledore, tired but always sharp. Much like the boy himself, who considered the fear that he might not be sent back this time at _all._

Though the steel of his fingers clenched, he responded, "No, I'm listening. Gryffindor room, lie, study. Stay away from Voldiwhore."

The headmaster gave him a solid look at that from over the edge of his tinted glasses; there was mirth in there somewhere, too, a reassurance to Edward that though the times were hard, Dumbledore was still a big softy.

Ed sighed and shifted a little in the chair of his office. Across the room, the phoenix - he couldn't quite recall the name - gazed at him gently and shook its feathered head. This place was still the same old same old. Daunting and whimsical. That was the magical world for you - get sucked in, or get out. He preferred the hard logic of alchemy and Amestris, the feel of coin and mathematics to sparkly shit.

"Look, I'm not here to get involved with stuff, or mess around, wasting time. I'm here to leave, plain and simple." _And if I can maybe find a way to help Al…_ His gloves squeaked against the armrest. "There are things I _really_ need to get back to. If I don't…"

 _Everyone will die. Father will destroy the world. Everyone he loves will fall, lifeless, gone forever and he will be here -_

"You may find it more difficult to stay uninvolved here than you think." A flash of his blackened hand didn't miss Edward's eye - he tracked it clearly and Dumbledore hid it away once more. "You mentioned that something withdrew you before. It may be in your best interest to wait for that to happen again-"

Away from his chair, Ed leaned up, speaking before the pain caught to him. "If I wait that long, my world will _die._ I can't just sit around on my ass and hope someone else-"

He grimaced, suddenly feeling the need to retch. A sharp, hot, dismal pain grew from his supposed to be healed wound, spreading in veiny agony throughout his torso. A whole midsection of pain and bodily defiance. He clutched at the area and swore.

The headmaster's eyes softened. "Perhaps you should revisit Mrs. Pomfrey. A few spells and I'm sure she'll have you feeling better in no time."

Through clenched teeth, "Did you hear anything I just said?!"

"Rest assured Edward, I am listening. You'll find your name will grant you full access to the library and other research materials. I don't expect you to spend your stay here in luxury. However, I must ask just one thing in return."

Of course he would. Ed tried not to vomit as he listened intently.

"Keep an eye on Mr. Potter. This world is rapidly changing, and I fear it is not in a good way."

From what Ed remembered, Harry could take care of himself. Still, he gave a skeptical nod; head down then up through resounding aches. Even if he promised, there was no absolute law that he had to follow through. He knew what he was here for - to get home. And that would be what he would pursue alone.

* * *

He transmuted what he could from the drapes for extra coats - there was a large pile of clothing for him on the bed already, but the dragging cloaks everyone else wore were...not his style. At least there was underwear and socks and other necessities, a few plain shirts and some slacks. He had the boots that were on him, wet with snow and blood.

With those things, and the journal that had been returned to him, and Winry's earrings, he filled the trunk at the foot of the bed and sealed with alchemy, locked it. No one would ever be getting into it at with that kind of advanced alchemic knowledge. Smugly, he crossed his arms and admired the interlocking work. And then he sat.

Naturally, Dumbledore had shoved him into Harry Potter's room.

Edward didn't know what he was going to say when he inevitably entered.

"Hey, how's it going?" didn't exactly seem appropriate, given the situation. They all probably assumed he was dead, and he might as well have been, completely disappearing that summer. Oh god, the Weasleys would be very touchy-feely. And Hermione. He remembered the sliver of her face he had seen in his weakened consciousness - pretty now, like Winry. But crying as she examined his features, as he had breathed with harsh labors, as he had slipped into near-death.

Inside his red coat, he felt the silk of his glove against a pocketwatch. He stood and made his way to the common room, a stony place by the fire.

It wasn't long until people began to file in, whispering and pointing with vivid stares.

"I hear he disappeared a long time ago."

"Did you see the way he came in?"

"I thought he was dead!"

Edward kept his gaze down despite any annoyance at the words. He felt dampened and tired, drained of life here. His usual temper was even too exhausted to rear its ugly head. As long as a certain word would stay away from the occasion (although he had grown many, many inches in the past year).

Finally, he heard the voices go completely silent and knew instantly the three that had entered. Harry's footsteps first, swift and light, almost nervous. Then Ron's, clunky. Hermione's were last, and they were the smoothest. The most eager seeming.

Edward looked up.

They were old.

For so many years, they had felt like imaginary friends in his head, pieces of something he would never touch again, never interact with - seeing them before him now...It was almost too much in a strange sense. This was a boy who'd been through hell and back, and yet, reunification with such a pure part of his life felt so very very heavy.

Feeling it was appropriate, he stood and left his hands in his pockets.

"Um, hello, I-"

After several seconds of nervously wringing her hands, Hermione flung herself at him. Everyone else became rigid.

"You have no _idea_ how worried we were!" At arm's length she pulled back, examining him. Eyes raked over his face then his form and his strange dress choice. He felt his cheeks burn and his - regrettably, his eyes, too. But he kept that 100% hidden, even when Hermione felt no shame in her tears.

"Yeah, mate," came Ron quietly. The words seemed hard to come out and weak. "We thought you were...y'know…"

"Dead," finished Harry. It seemed as though he couldn't help it - the black haired boy smiled, moving past hermione to clasp his friend with a firm handshake and a pat on the back. There was distance, sure, but it was alright. It had been a long time. You don't often forget the strong bonds you've had in the past, though. Edward knew this well, reciprocating their greetings even though his body and heart burned. He did owe them a lot.

They took their places with him by the fire and everyone else pretended to tune out. Said Ron,

"Yeah, Mum's going to be ecstatic to know you're alright."

Molly. There were many days in the past that he longed more than anything to be here again, but not away from Alphonse, not like this. Not with Winry's well being on the line and the world about to end.

Painfully, he nodded. For once, Edward Elric didn't know what to say. He tried his best. A harsh smile. He tried to be as nonchalant as he usually was, as driven and forward.

"It's good to see you guys again. Sorry I left you hanging before! Not like I had a choice, but..."

Harry shook his head, confused. He looked like he didn't know where to start, and the other two...They sat dumbfounded, blank expressions of disbelief even still. Ed had his arms propped on the back of the chair so his forearms dangled over his body and his frame was slouched. Completely casual, masking the raging nerves in his stomach.

"What _happened_? Everything seemed fine." They all thought of the same thing, it seemed - Edward's 'amnesia', his strange 'quirks'. "...Well, besides the obvious."

His grin remained toothy. "I found my dad," he lied happily. Not a complete lie, but one in context of the situation.

Hermione was the first to react, "Oh Edward, that's _great_ news!" But after processing the implication of the words, paused. Struggled for words.

Ron didn't. "Why didn't you write, then? Even just one letter. We were bloody worried. I mean, we _really_ thought you were a goner. Dead. In the ground."

The alchemist's face tightened for just a split second in remorse. As soon as it was back, he replied,

"I didn't have an owl. And even if I did, we were far away. Too far for one to travel. And I didn't know how to get back in to the wizarding world once I was out. You guys ever think of maybe putting a sign up or something?"

He hoped they couldn't hear or see his nerves. Mostly, he knew they couldn't - he looked picturesquely calm and confident per usual. Grounded even with his attitude and fire. But as the lies stacked up, he realized more and more that he needed to leave as soon as possible. Getting attached again would be a mistake. A big mistake.

"That's really all…?" Harry sounded disbelieving, and Ed didn't blame him. He wouldn't believe that bullshit either. Still, the blond nodded.

"Yeah, I know it's stupid and all, but that's really why. It wasn't like I liked taking off on you guys. But like I said, I didn't have a choice."

The trio paused and looked at one another. Hermione was next to speak, whispering amidst the common room chatter,

"And what about coming back? There must be an explanation for... _that._ "

Lightly, too lightly, "Psh, that was _nothing_ , I'm already better. There's no need to worry about _that._ "

Again, exchanged glances. Again, hesitation. Hermione and Ron seemed to look to Harry now for assurance, who gave some kind of warning look. Maybe to not dig in too deep yet. Yeah, that seemed about right.

Harry said with a contorted expression, "We're not stupid, Ed. We know there's more to it than that."

The blond stood and stretch. Oh dear god, that hurt like absolute hell. His arms quickly dropped to his sides but he tried to make it seem as normal as possible, softening his face and yawning through the raging agony.

"If you say so. I'm gonna hit the sack. I'm tired."

They watched with open mouths as he left - Hogwarts' greatest enigma of a student. And that was saying something. None of them could define an answer for his change, could come up with any kind of explanation on what had happened, but between the three of them, there was one thing for certain:

Edward Elric was lying, and Edward Elric was drastically different. And they longed to unroot the reason for both.

* * *

 **A/N:** I'm alive and I have no idea how to write these characters anymore.


	5. but it's ok

Unfortunately, Edward only had one full day before tragedy struck. Or maybe fortunately, depending on how he looked at it; not so many questions to be thrown his way, less stares, less time in the spotlight before something else could take it. But the something else that would take it - that was not worth the sudden reprieve from the spotlight. The harsh ray was not as scalding as the battle at Hogwarts that would soon happen.

He awoke that morning without sleep on his side, not groggy nor deprived feeling. Just a large yank on every single one of his nerves as he pondered his fresh situation and all the events leading up to it. Winry should be safe, hopefully. Al's situation was not entirely known to Edward, which worried him most. Mustang, Hawkeye, General Armstrong - they would all be fine, he was sure of it. Which meant all thoughts led him back to Al, more specifically, the fact that they were connected.

If it was as they thought, and his food fed Al's body, and his growth was donated to Al's body, then vanishing to another world...That had to have some kind of effect on Al's misplaced soul.

Ed rolled over on the cushion, heart thrumming at the break of dawn. These beds were far more comfortable than he was used to at Briggs. The weather more becoming as well. Against stone, torchlight flickered and flew, nasty shadows reflected and tormenting his eyes. He shut them. Then open, a tight squeeze to remove any lingering images. With the other boys in the room, Ed was forced to sleep in long sleeves and pants and gloves; the heat was strangling. No blankets adorned his body, either, so he had to be careful about every slip of his worn white gloves. Or maybe…

Thoughts raced from the information the gate had given him, another curious factor. Last time, that definitely hadn't happened. He'd been forced to scrape through lessons with no pretense for what magic was or how its laws disobeyed everything in his world. But now...Now he knew what looked like _everything._ What had he paid for that…?

Darius and Heinkel? The two chimeras with Kimblee...maybe he had accidentally sacrificed them, maybe he had murdered without knowledge in return for such. The more facts of magic that raced through his head, the more inclined he was to believe that, a horrendously sick feeling building in his chest.

It's alright, he told himself. Focus. Figure out how to leave.

And how had he calculated so poorly that he sent himself to another world?

Back to the gloves Ed, _focus._ He thought hard of the facts and sent every ounce of his own attention to the metal adornments on his arm and leg. Or lack of arm and leg, rather. Pictured clearly what he intended and what they should look like as regular flesh and blood.

Like a mirage, the image hovered over and then plastered itself down as though it were glued.

An illusion of regularity. Great. Edward slipped his discarded gloves under the pillow and removed his socks as well. Ah, fresh air - nothing like it, especially in a heated stone room. It was like they were trying to cook the kids. With Dumbledore's odd methods, Ed wouldn't be surprised.

Feeling confident the illusion would stick, he pulled open his bed-surrounding curtains and placed metal foot first on the floor. Still no feeling, of course. No inclination of the cold hard floor against his fake foot, but that was to be expected. Magic couldn't fix sin. And even if it could, he wouldn't want it to.

* * *

The breakfast hall was just barely open at this hour, which was actually a little later than he expected. The sun rose in a different way here. The Amestrian sunrise came early. Or maybe it was the other way around

Regardless, he was surprised to find one student at the table, considering the whole rest of the hall was quiet, empty, and groggy with sleep. It was strange to see the tables like this after the bustling of his previous entry and the way he used to know them. But then, Hermione had always been an early riser, hadn't she? It seemed he could remember dawn conversations over eggs and juice, years and years ago.

"Whatcha reading?" he yawned, sliding into the bench with a clank of his foot against the floor. Though he cringed, she didn't seem to notice in her startle.

"Oh Edward, you scared me!" She hastily bookmarked her page and set it down. "Just the latest chapter in Potions. I followed the directions perfectly in class, but…"

He couldn't say he understood, but he tried. "Looking for something you did wrong?"

"I suppose so." She set the book completely down, next to her untouched plate of food.

Edward's own plate apparated into existence as well as food from every group. He still picked the eggs and juice, a simple tiding for his enraged intestines. Even now, time later, his wound roared and refused to seal. Madame Pomfrey would never know (he hoped), but there was something off about it. Something alchemically done that he felt magic had no place in. From when he had tried to reseal his better-off organs and mesh them into something functioning, leaving the rest of his body to fester and figure out a way around the offending tissue. Not good.

He stared dolefully at his eggs and laid his fork to rest, food uneaten.

"But enough about that," she smiled. "How are you feeling? You look a little…" Hermione stopped short in her words, maybe blushing as she tried to figure out a not rude way to say things.

"Dead?" offered the alchemist. "Yeah, I know. It's kinda hard to sleep when Ron snores like a truck." Another yawn, this time exaggerated for effect.

A weak laugh. "Harry complains about that, too."

"I can see why. I'm just surprised they don't kick him out." He crossed his arms over the massive hole in his abdomen to try and stop the pain. No hope - it raged on, the thin layer of skin that contained the blood feeling like it could split at any second.

(Don't show it, don't show it, don't show it.)

Through grit teeth, before she could comment, "So what have you guys been up to the last...six years?" A nervous tone that he was sure she wouldn't miss. If he remembered one thing about Hermione, it was her intelligence - and then the insufferable hounding.

She paused but her smile came through again. "Well quite a bit, I suppose. Mostly on Harry's side."

"He still the good old Chosen One?"

"Yes, that...hasn't changed." Mirth.

"Voldemort still up and around?" He knew the answer but wanted to monitor her reaction to the name - the barest of flinches, hardly anything at all. Good for them, growing out of dumbass names.

Mirth gone. "Unfortunately, that hasn't either."

"So things have gotten worse," ventured Edward.

Hermione's next look was wry and somewhat cautionary - like she was trying to decipher something and play it cool at the same time. She'd gotten a lot better about hiding plain looks, though her actual looks had gone up from anything plain. She was pretty now. Not like Winry's kind of... _buxom_ looks (he tried not to blush, suddenly focusing downwards), but more subtle and lithe. A pleasing face and sharp words.

"I would've thought Dumbledore would mention something about it all."

"Yeah, that there's a war and that I shouldn't get caught up in it. But somehow, it already seems a little late for that."

Gravely, she looked down and away from his eyes. His own bored golden holes into her person, pieces of wispy hair the same color falling from his ponytail and scratching the back of his neck. He didn't dare pull it any tighter, lest his side split in half and guts spill on the table. That would be a little awkward, suffice to say.

"I'm afraid if you're a wizard you're automatically part of the mix. Especially if you're muggle born."

Ah yes, the blatant racism of the wizarding world. Oh how he'd missed these insufferable assholes with their god complexes and complete lack of self awareness...By that definition, Mustang belonged here, too.

Not receiving an immediate response, and not having been given much about either Ed's mother or father, Hermione ventured, "... _Are_ you muggleborn?"

Well that was a loaded question. But seeing as neither of his parents existed in this dimension, it seemed like a resounding, "Yeah," accompanied by an unintentional snort.

"The bastard would _hate_ this place."

It was supposed to be under his breath, but came out a little louder. Ed sucked at subtlety, this was a fact.

"Your father?" presumed Hermione, wisely. No answer.

Ed stood carefully enough that his body didn't rip in half and asked with a grin, "So where's the library again?"

* * *

 **A/N:** short chapters but hopefully frequent posting. Haven't read the books in 6 years so idk what i'm doing.

Shameless plug: my tumblr is contrazero if u wanna ask questions


	6. i'll figure it out

It was a shame how little Edward met with Harry and Ron before shit went down.

The majority of the day of the attack Ed holed in the library, where Hermione and him chatted lightly for several minutes before she left to attend class and he was sunk into lone hours of reading. Devouring every new book that had arrived since freshman year, useless topics that held no bearing. Still, he combed almost every novel he ran across, dead eyes hoping for _anything._ Dull and yellow, amber that had lost its gleam, at least for now. It didn't help that his guts wanted to escape - that was usually never a plus - but now more than ever it confronted him as a distraction.

"Oi, Ed, you alright?"

Ed, in a very not Ed-like way, jumped what must have been two feet in the air and inhaled sharply - just for a split second, his vision was black and teeth grit down so hard on his tongue that he tasted an iron tang. Resoundingly, he swore, " _Shit!_ "

While Harry and Ron grinned and chuckled with mirth and glee, Edward forced the murder back into his eyes and dusted himself off. From then on, he sat hunched slightly forward. It was the only position where his side screamed with less anger and didn't plead with him to just end it already. Clearly, his mood was quite sunny.

Again through grit teeth so that it almost looked like annoyance, "Doing just _dandy._ " He tried to be civil like he would with a child, knowing he owed these people a debt. Ron could still be a prick, though. "Is there something you need?" Each syllable was hissed.

Wiping away fake tears, "You ever thought of joining the ballet? That leap was quite-"

Harry elbowed his friend in the side but Ed didn't miss that asinine grin still on his face. "We just thought we'd check up on you. Hermione said you'd been up here all day, and we didn't see you come down for lunch."

His eyes drifted towards the clock on the wall. Huh, it was getting kind of late. Still no room for food in his stomach, though - he had trouble not heaving then and there at the thought of it. This was getting ridiculous. He should go back to the hospital ward, his rational side begged. The irrational and dominant half laughed. Like Madam Pomfrey could heal his alchemically tainted innards (a lovely thought). He knew from research that dark magic couldn't be fixed, and this was human transmutation, no matter how small. His recent stay had done nothing but seal the outside skin. The inside still throbbed with merciless glee, an infestation of his stupidity and Kimblee's wrath that Madam Pomfrey's potions had had no effect on whatsoever. Lucky for him that Dumbledore pardoned his visit at the alchemist's request (or maybe he had just been hiding from the busy woman, that could be it, too).

Ed fiddled with the edge of the page he was on, unable to feel the fibers through his illusioned metal skin.

"Not hungry." Again, his eyes began to mindlessly skim.

And again, Ron started but was stopped by his friend, "Listen, mate, we told Hermione we'd bring-"

"We'll see you later then," Harry's hand lingered on his friend's shoulder, guiding him away. At least one of them had an eye for when someone was busy. And growing annoyed. "Bye, Ed."

No words. The blond lifted one hand in response, barely paying attention anymore, and turned another page. The other two teens shot one another glances that would have been indecipherable to him them, chattering to one another down the hall. He lost track of time once more.

* * *

The first indication that something was wrong: a scream down the way, maybe a floor below maybe not. Bloodcurdling. Edward snapped his book shut but did not move further or fear of unnecessary aggravation to his wound. Both hands rested loosely on the side of the green hardcover.

" _STUPEFY!"_

Yeah, that was getting closer. But did he really have to move…? Maybe it was just a simple prank. Hogwarts was, after all, impenetrable. In anticipation, he began to comb through the knowledge the gate had given him, touch base with memories of previous fights, even though his last had not ended well at all. He was about to stand when Hermione skidded into the room, panting and slightly sweaty - fearful.

He paused with his hands on the arm of the chair, butt barely lifted.

"Hurry, we have to get out of here!" she breathed. "Death Eaters have swept the grounds, Fenrir is downstairs, there's no time," she rushed to him, grabbed the crook of his elbow and lifted him up, which erupted a sickening and slight _rip_ from Edward's side. He paled considerably. "I completely forgot you were in here," she continued, unknowing of his agony.

His metal hand, cooler than the other, clasped as tightly as he could stand it over his wound as he rose on his own. Pushed away now, Hermione didn't seem to mind. Her eyes were lost on something, something not in the library but reflected in the distant screams and rattles. Slowly, tears began to leak from them, but she still rattled on.

"The Dark Mark appeared just a bit ago. No one's been really hurt yet - I hope - but they made it into the Great Hall." Shaking, she rushed ahead of him out of the room. He tried not to limp as he followed, concentration waning in and out though he tried to command it.

"It's terrible," cracked her voice. "It's a good thing you were safe." The tears fell. "I don't know what I would do if-"

"Hermione," he seethed. "Calm down and tell me _exactly_ what happened."

She turned and he saw just how distraught she was, trying to hold it together failingly. For someone relatively strong like Hermione to lose it...His mind knew it must have been something really bad.

"The Dark Mark, and Dumbledore, I think he's…"

Something other than pain swum in Edward's abdomen, writhing around like the head of a snake. The same as when Hughes had been taken from them, the same as when he had walked in on the hybrid monstrosity of Nina and Alexander, innocent-eyed and foul with the stench of misery. Adrenaline fought it out with the snake, allowing him to stride rather than limp, though his hand remained glued to his shirt still.

This world wasn't his. This battle wasn't about him. It wasn't his to fight. But hadn't that been what the old geezer had asked of him? To protect Harry, to help with the war, to stay on the _right_ side, even if that meant side-tracking his own goals. Though thoughts swarmed in his head like hornets, it was the physical that motor controlled him from here on out.

Hermione led them back to the center of the clamor, where wizards fought wizards with beaming strands of magic. Before they could hit the hearth, however, they were met with a cloak-shielded Death Eater. Mask and all.

" _Ava-"_ the spell only made it a syllable far (not even) before Edward wandlessly fired one back. A stunner.

" _Stupefy,_ " rushed and without particular grace. But who needed those things when your life was on the line? The gate's knowledge aided him and the Death Eater slumped unconscious to the floor. Hermione stared, but Edward, knowing they were nearing the area, only picked up the pace to a full-out jog. (Something hot leaked down his ribs.)

Now more than ever, the wandless spells were difficult. Not like he had much choice, without a stick to help him, but he longed relentlessly to resort to alchemy, dodging two spells just barely as they fell upon the large room of battle. McGonagall fended off another witch, Neville countered a spell, Flitwick took a nasty hit but kept going. Names he _hardly_ remembered but felt for. The heart of battle reminded him too much of his actual home, and in heightened nerves, his concentration increased.

" _Crucio!"_

Edward dodged again.

" _Impedimenta!"_

A sidestep to the right.

" _Avada Kedavra!"_

He had almost no choice, having backed himself to a wall. The gate's knowledge seared itself into his demeanor, took hold of his limbs as his brain longed to live, and used something that tugged at his chest, the effort was so strong. Before him gleamed a thin and transparent but impassable silver shield, preceded by the muttering of a spell. The magic rebounded the death wish with a sound like a deep gong, stilling the room for just a second as every head turned to look at the noise.

But fighting resumed, as it always did, the noise recurring over and over as more people threw spells his way. Using the cover wisely, Edward stalked his way to the center of the room. There, Neville had been knocked to the floor, Hermione behind him caught in her own battle.

"Have you seen Harry?" the blond called over the struggle. Between opposing shots, he bent to help Neville stand - the strain turned him sheet white as the blood seeped out of the hole in his body. Any minute now, his knees would buckle and his shield would fall. He fought to think of a backup plan, knowing it would have to include alchemy.

"Thanks," breathed Neville. "And yeah, he's the one that knocked me over." Said with no blame as he countered someone's nasty spell. "He sped out the front doors there, looking angry."

Before Edward could move however, a particularly nasty spell was sent his way. Lost in his own ambition, his concentration broke with the mystical shield, shattering into a million glinting pieces that disintegrated before they ever hit the floor. The harsh impact threw him back, but Neville was there to catch him. He wrapped his fingers around Edward's shoulders, keeping the two of them upright. But it didn't do much to mask the pained shout that escaped; he stumbled even further at the raging from his side. Pain comparable to automail surgery, comparable to losing an arm - no, not the same. This time, it was only his life in danger, he could tell as the Death Eaters, in one fell swoop, disapparated.

Then that meant Harry was safe. And that, for now, at least, everything would be okay…

He barely knew Neville. Still, the dark-haired boy cried, "Ed, are you okay?!"

His legs wouldn't work when he tried to stand to a full, so he reluctantly leaned on Neville with the brunt of his weight. The duo depressed with it, but walked forward at Ed's insistence.

"Fine," he grit out. "Don't worry about me. We have to get outside."

That was where the students were fleeing in bulk, all rushing outdoors to see who had been hit by the Dark Mark, to see where the tragic cries were coming from, to see what the root of their next mourning would be. Edward knew. He knew because Hermione knew, and Hermione knew because she was quite clever. The source of the mark's position could be deducted as to where Dumbledore and Harry had returned. And there was not enough celebration on the end of the Death Eaters for it to be Harry…

They reached the circle of students with great trouble, blood actually leaking from Edward now. But making it _int_ o the circle in their wide state of conjoined walking was quite difficult.

"It's fine, Neville, I'll be okay here. Go look." Exasperation laced his tone even through agony. Half at his own situation, half at the stubbornly good kid.

"No, I can't just leave you here. You're bleeding!"

" _Neville,_ " hissed Ed, "Go look."

The boy gave him one last glance, but this time it was penetrated by fear - what could be so important that Elric would insist like that? When wands began to raise to the sky in pointed beams, when the moment of remembrance began, Neville slipped his arm out from under Ed and forced his way into the circle.

Even from the sidelines, way out, Edward could hear Harry's disturbed cries. He slipped out of consciousness to their horrific sound.

* * *

"But...she...you."

"...Moment...Discuss…"

"I've done it, Professor….M-moved him."

Ed's eyes opened in four blinks, the first three too fuzzy to see through and the last surprisingly painful against the harsh hospital wing light. Though he barely moved an inch against the scratchy covers, his abdomen protested and surged with an intense nausea. He heaved over the bed, other sensations lost. A harsh and painful gag that left his throat as sore as his eyes.

The talking ceased. He knew they were staring at him from across the room, even with the curtains drawn tightly over his bed. It was Madam Pomfrey's footsteps that approached and voice that drew, "Oh, dear. I'm afraid he's awakened."

"Who's awakened?" That voice was familiar...Motherly, old… "I hadn't heard of anyone else getting hurt in the fight." Weasley's. Oh god.

Ed collapsed back onto his pillow, evaporating the bloody stomach remains on the floor just in time for Pomfrey to shove open the curtains with a dramatic flair. His bruised eyes, pallid skin, and - oh for fuck's sake - his mechanical hand and foot were revealed to the world for all to see. Someone had changed him into scrubs, and his blankets were strewn to the right. Made sense with how insanely heated the room was. Or maybe, he thought, feeling his forehead with one clammy hand - maybe that was just a fever.

God, he felt awful.

Everyone kept staring quietly. He glared back.

"What're you lookin a-" he tried to start, but just ended up clutching his side in another wave of brutal pain, features bulging as he kept his organs inside with what seemed like sheer will now. His 'friends' looked at him like a creature in a zoo as he spit violent red onto his hand and fell back to the pillow for the second time. Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad. Really fucking bad.

" _Edward?_ " cried Mrs. Weasley. She bustled past a confused Pomfrey to reach his side, ignoring the nurse's warnings and hesitating with her hand over his flesh hand. He didn't have the heart to withdraw it and she seized, cradling it with about half as much force as she would cradle his head if he let her. He glanced away to hide his flush.

"Oh Edward, we were all so worried, we thought you were..." She refused to say it, of course. "Well, it doesn't matter what we thought you were, because you're here now." She glanced down at the spots of dark brown against the upper scrubs - dried blood in large amounts. "Oh dear, what happened? Madam Pomfrey, can't some potions fix this up?" Back to him her mouth turned. "Were you hit by a curse? Whatever happened to your _arm_?!" Then he saw the back of her head, in double thanks to his fever. " _RON!_ Why didn't you write!?"

The redhead blanched. He couldn't seem to find words for a little while. "Well, there was a lot going on, Mum, I-"

Madam Pomfrey lost it then, "Back, back! Give him space!"

Mrs. Weasley refused, latching onto his hand even harder. "Now, Pomfrey, this boy is just as much my son as-"

He swallowed his pain and sat up, startling the mother and startling the nurse, and having not much left to hide, cradled his wound with the metal hand brazenly. He cringed but spoke his word. Only visible to him from here were Ron and Ginny and some poor cut-up Bastard in a bed, being fondled by a hot blonde.

"Where's Harry?" he croaked, dropping Mrs. Weasley's hand.

She didn't seem to mind. Everyone looked back to the far area of the room where he couldn't quite see. The boy in question approached and Ed let out a painful sigh of relief.

"Okay," he swallowed everything but his determination and in one move, swung his legs off the bed. "I'll be going now."

Yeah, no. They wouldn't stand. His legs wouldn't fucking stand. He just hesitated there awkwardly on the edge of the bed, looking constipated and bleeding freshly, until Madam Pomfrey lost it for the second time.

"Lay back down, you fool."

He _really_ didn't want to, but he had to weigh which was worse: this, or dying? It seemed dying barely came out on top, because he (for once in his life) obediently laid back down, swearing under his breath all the while.

There was another round of frozen tension, then Hermione was the one to speak up. She, too, came to his bedside, until there was a mass exodus in that direction.

"This is from when you arrived, isn't it?" Fearful eyes.

He met them but didn't nod. That was answer in itself, he supposed, because she bit her lip worryingly and replied.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Better yet," added Harry, "Why aren't you healing now?"

"And bloody hell - what's with your _arm and leg_!?"

He contemplated feigning sleep, but decided ultimately that that wouldn't work. So internally sighing (and bleeding), he gathered his patience (there was little of it).

The easiest explanation first: "It's dark magic, potions won't help."

Which elicited a stupid gasp from few in the room, only grating his short (not short, not short, not short) nerves further. Goddamnit, he just wanted to rest and get a move on. One of the men who had stayed back a ways, with the same golden eyes as him, stared warily.

"From Greyback?" he inquired. Ed shot him a confused glare, if that was possible, and he clarified a little, "I'm Remus Lupin, sorry to be introduced this way." He did look as he said, and the apology gave him brownie points in Ed's book.

A grunt. "Ed. Who's Greyback?"

A funny little expression. "Uh, he's a werewolf. I thought maybe with the color of your eyes-"

He would have laughed, if he was sure it wouldn't kill him. "No, that's - not it."

"He came in from the ceiling like this," loosely explained Ginny. "But even more bloody and looking like he was dead."

That only seemed to confuse the rest of the party even more as they cocked their heads in a humorous way and eyed him. Even the man who was getting goo dabbed on his gashed face looked interested.

"After disappearing for six years, to top it off," finished Harry. Okay, that was definitely suspicion in his voice, which was not good, considering Dumbledore had asked him to _care_ for the kid, not get killed by him. But he figured it would be easily resolved - he had nothing to do with the situation, after all.

"From the ceiling?" parroted Remus.

"Even _more_ bloody?"

McGonagall, the logical, logical, McGonagall, was the last to speak. "Who cast dark magic on you, Mr. Elric?"

 _Myself_ probably wasn't the best answer here. So he scrambled for something believable and half true.

"None of your business."

Great, now it looked like he was pouting (maybe a little). But better to be childish than exposed in his book, so he stayed with his nose up and secrets hidden. McGonagall seemed like she was fighting not to roll her eyes.

"So what, you're going to pop in after all these years and expect us _not_ to care about you?" Harry was angry. "Well fine, if you're going to be an ass, then be an ass, we've got bigger things to worry about than this," said storming out of the room with a snippety Ron in tow. Hermione glanced fervently between Ed and Harry as though deciding and then announced,

"I'll go calm him down. He doesn't mean it, there's just a lot going on," and left.

After that, the rest of the Weasleys returned to the scratched man's side, Molly's departure even more reluctant and teary than Hermione's, though she said nothing. When it was only he and McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey, the latter drew the curtain around them once more and casted some kind of charm - a silencing one. McGonagall's mouth formed a tight line.

"Is it really dark magic?" questioned the nurse, maybe a little harshly as she mindlessly worked on casting little spells over his wound.

Irate by the lack of permission to do so, Ed snapped, "That's not going to work. Quit tampering with it!" He scowled and writhed when she continued. " _Ow!_ You're only making it worse!"

But it seemed she'd found the answer she was looking for, as her face fell distraught and eyes connected with Minerva's.

"I thought there was something off when only the top layer mended, but…"

"What kind of dark magic, Mr. Elric? Was it You-Know-Who's work?"

He griped, "No, damnit, so you can leave me alone. It'll heal without all this interfering crap. I was doing _just fine_ until I got here."

"Just fine, you say?! They brought you here half-dead and with your legs in the air."

"Well I'm gonna be _whole_ dead if you keep poking at it!" he yipped as she drew up his shirt to try and inspect the nasty looking scar. He caught a glimpse himself before forcefully ripping it down; festering, rotting flesh with puckered edges and an oozed substance. It looked infected and subhuman.

Another look shared between the adults.

Minerva conjured something wordlessly, waving her wand with delicate motions: a large first aid kit. Distinct by the plus on the front.

"Will this do?"

"I hope. I'm not very well-versed in muggle medicine, so-"

Despite the pain, he snatched the kit out of the air himself. Unzipped, it contained everything he would need: sutures, alcohol, gauze, tape, the likes. He trusted himself better than both the others combined, even in this state.

"I can do it myself," he insisted sharply. They didn't budge. "With a little privacy."

Hesitation. "There's just one last thing, Mr. Elric."

He kept his hands around the kit, safeguarding it like a bear to honey. The sheen in his eyes was deranged and irate, there to insure there would be no more bothering, but it seemed that McGonagall saw through it.

"Your arm and leg." Shame the illusion had worn off, really. "Are those dark magic, too?"

"Yes," he nipped. "Now get out. I have work to do."

The two left with grace and charm compared to his current mood, slipping out of the curtain and into the world he couldn't hear in just the right amount of time before he lost it. Shit. Edward fainted with a dizzy spell, the nice reprieve from pain welcome.

* * *

 **A/N:** this is the chapter that sucks the most. but it's long so there' sthat ...


	7. the people here aren't too bad

Down his forehead, over wrinkles of stress and tense pores, past fine blonde eyebrows and onto the delicate proportion of his downturned lashes - the sweat stung his eyes. He would brush it out of the way with a backward hand, but said hand was occupied at the moment. Its fingers pinched a strong thread. In the grip of the others, a needle. He pulled.

Surprisingly, if there was one thing Edward had learned to do well over the years, it was to not scream. Of course, that barred early-year rants about his height. And shots at his talent. But in terms of facing ridiculous levels of pain, he was confident in his ability to remain silent; it wasn't a scream that burst forward from his chapped, tight lips, but a grunt and a furthered grimace and a wobbly shake of his flesh hand that only made the thread pull tighter and thick layers of skin smash together. _Welch._

That - that was a good time for a break, he decided. Down went the needle. Down went the thread. He tried to breathe without shuddering but it was easier said than done. Sweat fell finally to his upper lip and he licked it away. He would lean back, but he was afraid the extra strain would tear the wound back open, and that was the last thing he wanted.

"Six left," Edward estimated to himself. "Fourteen down."

The rip in his side was considerably less giant the second time - the first time it had been created by the large pole he fell onto, this time reopened from excessive activity. But it hurt more after the fact. He supposed the stitches didn't help, nor the fact that his insides were hellishly jumbled and he didn't have adrenaline to numb the edge. He considered asking Dumbledore for some kind of pain-numbing spell, but his skepticism and pride stopped him. If there was something so good that would work, he figured Truth would have let him in on it when he mind-raped Edward. No such luck. Never such luck.

Blood stained the bed sheets and his clothes. It had poured rapidly at the beginning, a seep from pinprick holes and loose openings that fell in rivulets down to the tile of the floor - now it was just a feeble stream every so often. A chance spurt that forced him to break at the loss of concentration. And god knows there was already so little of that.

He sighed and picked up the needle once more, muttering, "Last stretch, c'mon…"

 _In_ went the needle, piercing, binding - _out_ it came from the other side. In, out, in out, in-

"Edward?" Someone was outside his curtain. He could see the silhouette whom the voice belonged to, now that he had paused - Hermione, no doubt. The tiny frame and high pitched voice. It was a hesitant tone as she waited, seemingly seconds away from just pulling the curtain aside herself.

Ed pulled up his bedsheets to hide the festering wound and cringed. At least he'd already done the hard part: the alcohol rinse.

"Yeah, what is it?"

"Um, if I may…"

Two of her fingers carefully slipped through the gap, a silent question of 'can I invade your privacy real quick?'. He didn't want to say yes, but once she was in, she was in.

"Whatever, go ahead if you want."

Back they went. She smiled on the other side, carefully holding herself in the smallest possible way so as to seem polite. When she tensed and gasped he knew something was wrong.

"Oh Edward, that looks terrible."

Shit. He had forgotten about the blood. He wiped his hands down on the covers for good measure.

"It's dried. Don't worry about it. Nothing wrong."

He needed a transfusion, he needed a septic cleanse, he needed a proper bandage and staples, probably, and so much more. But no, nothing wrong if it'll appease the girl. Maybe he could escape to a real hospital, with real tools. Maybe the magic world would just let him go...Yeah, right. He scoffed internally but gave a calculating stare on the outside.

"Did you need something?"

She sat on the bedside stool (damnit), the plastic surface creaking under her weight. So modern compared to the rest of Hogwarts, so streamlined even when the medical measures were decades behind the rest of the world. No automail here, even.

Speaking of which, he could see how her brown eyes lingered on his, even as she tried not to.

"Well, no...Not exactly, I just thought maybe-"

"You thought I needed help?"

She flushed. "Yes."

This, Edward considered for a few good seconds, sizing her up. Little hands, nimble. Good brain. Might be able to do a straighter, more efficient job than him in half the time. Wouldn't hurt to try, except maybe the excruciating pain that would ensue if she went too deep. Maybe that.

He maintained eye contact as he pushed down the covers. Hermione, to her credit, only flinched - she seemed to sense his short temper already. And then she moved a little closer, letting her tiny fingers hover over the wound, sizing it up.

"It's - it's really bad."

"Yeah, yeah, but you're a muggle or whatever, right? Or you were raised by them - do you know where I could get some…" He gesticulated with his hands, trying to find the right words, recall Winry's careful terminology.

"I need an IV." He finished. And then cringed when he thought of the needle, long and sharp, that that would entail. "Shit, and actual sutures, and a- a way to eat. Because I don't know how well that's going to work now."

The idea of food sent his already nauseous entrails into a frenzy - a painful one - and his whole body clenched in agony as he fought to keep his face neutral. Hermione noticed. She always noticed. Ever the perceptive, she closed the distance and rolled her chair closer, brows knit in concern.

"I don't know where we could take you that wouldn't question your...limbs." The girl worried her hands. Edward laid his head back and sighed. "I mean, my parents are dentists, but that's a bit different. I don't think they'd be able to help you."

"Dentist?" he repeated, blinking. "It doesn't matter what kind of doctor - could they get IV fluids or not?"

"...Yes, I think they could."

He glanced back down at the festering hellhole. Back to Hermione, backlight in white by the hospital wing. Back to the hellhole.

"How fast can you get us there?"

"I'm not sure that that's the best idea - maybe McGonagall could apparate us there, but everyone's rather tense after - after Dumbledore…"

Edward felt his heart hit the bottom of his chest, felt each painful pump thereafter. _Shit_. He didn't have _time_ to feel for a fake world - he had to get back to his own. And that meant sucking up whatever bullshit wound this was and powering through. He would find a way home. And he would fix Alphonse. (And it wouldn't hurt to save the world a little.)

Suddenly, Truth decided to rear its ugly head, and Edward smacked one (flesh) palm against his weary face.

"Apparate, of course!"

"You can't," Hermione was quick to clarify. "At least, not out of Hogwarts. And not with those injuries. You'd kill yourself!"

He assumed by the set of her jaw that she wasn't exaggerating.

"But if I'm off grounds…"

She finished with a shaky tone, "...You'll still kill yourself."

Edward gave a sagely nod and pretended to forget about it, as he did with all things in life: human transmutation didn't bother him (don't forget); his mother's face was _nothing;_ Hohenheim's back? - who cared! He could forget all these things easily, banish them from his mind without a sweat.

"In that case, you think you could lend me a hand?" he grinned, holding up a bloody needle and thread.

Hermione looked like she was going to pass out.

* * *

He hated the damn thing. Gave it a good, hard, long stare - the object of his own creation.

The wheelchair.

Seeing as he was a bit useless right now, with the whole pipe-in-stomach ordeal, and he couldn't walk - he figured a wheelchair was a better deal than letting anyone _float_ him around, god forbid. So he conjured one. It felt indescribably strange to not have a balanced equation in his head. And even stranger, to know the words before he said them, despite having never encountered them in his life. A simple incantation and a mere thought, and there was a shiny and padded wheelchair before his eyes. He felt kind of stupid staring at it. He looked kind of stupid staring at it. Madame Pomfrey said so.

"What are you waiting for, my dear? It's not going to explode, you know."

He glared but she didn't seem to mind much, pushing his shoulder as she tried to forcefully guide him into the damn thing.

"Alright, alright, I'm _going._ Don't touch me, damnit!" He went down with the first step. A shaky leg and a slew of colorful swears and then he was on the floor, just having missed the seat of the chair.

"Fuck _you_ , you stupid fucking chair. I'll show-"

"Watch your language, young man. And hurry up, we're going to be late."

A few good minutes later and he was situated, nice and comfortable and humiliated beyond belief. He grumbled all the way down to the grounds. And swore even more when they hit bumpy grass.

Everyone had begun to file down by the lake, watching a fixed point - that would be Dumbledore's body or casket or whatever wizard's did, he assumed. Pomfrey had come in earlier in the morning to let him know what was going to happen. Of course, she hadn't asked if he was actually going to partake. But she didn't really need to, either. Edward kept running through memories of years prior, trying to draw out the image of his twinkling eyes, rather than block them out. The blocking hadn't worked. It hadn't worked at all. So if you can't leave it behind, embrace it, right? A heavy sadness had fallen onto his body as he realized that it was going to take him a little longer than he thought to get home. As he realized that he had to honor Dumbledore, here and now. But hey, a day's setback wasn't too bad. He'd done worse in just train delays.

They pulled in along side the crowd, Edward's face propped up on one very exposed automail hand. He assumed everyone would figure it out sooner or later. And a few already knew despite his best efforts, so what was the point? No one cared right now. No one could bother to care when Dumbledore's body erupted in white flames and some ministry fool gave a long and hollow sermon. There were singers. And fish people came out of the lake. Edward couldn't even be surprised. This world was like a bad...book or something. Whimsical and fantastical and so _wrong_ to him.

He ignored Ron and Harry and Hermione's pointed gazes and watched the lake a while after people had begun to depart.

Pomfrey was sobbing. "He was a good man," she said.

Edward didn't respond. He saw Harry cry, too, and looked away. "We should go back. Where's McGonagall?"

Hagrid wailed a loud cry and Edward felt chills descend his back. _Don't think about Mom, don't think about Mom, don't think about -_

"Edward," said Hermione. The other two were in tow and he wished he'd told Pomfrey to hightail it long ago. As it was, she gave them a fervent glance and then excused herself back to the castle after making Hermione promise to take care of him.

The girl herself didn't give him time to speak. "We're going to the burrow. I can bring some things from my parents - I've already let them know I'll be coming by."

He saw Harry and Ron shoot each other _looks_ and fought the urge to roll his eyes.

"That's okay. I think I'm gonna head out, find a hospital," he lied. He would do no such thing under any circumstances.

Wind picked up around them and the smell of the lake became strong and inescapable. The day was warm and yellow and grass crunched beneath the wheelchair. His arm shifted away from his chin as he moved to pull the wheels.

"Sorry Edward, but I'm afraid that won't work."

He narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean that won't work?"

"You have a lot of explaining to do," snapped Harry. "And we're not just going to let you go and vanish again."

"Yeah, mate. Those wounds don't look so good - don't want you collapsing before you get to wherever it is you're trying to go."

Shit.

Shit. Shit. SHIT.

"Shit. You guys aren't gonna _let_ me leave, are you?"

The stares were answer enough. He supposed they always had been hard headed. He'd hoped that would have changed between eleven and sixteen, but some things never did. He was the same, too. Different, but not so much so from the little boy that had skated through here not so long ago.

He grinned. "Thanks."

And hoped that the explaining part would be overlooked. If not, he'd have to run, and that left a bad taste in his mouth.

* * *

 **Un-proofed and short as hell, but better than nothing.**


	8. even though they're nosy as all hell

Edward Elric had the shittiest goddamned luck in the world. No - in _two_ worlds.

The week had started off alright. They - the school - had only a few days before eviction for the summer, and they weren't the _worst_. Sure, every small movement was agony. Sure, Harry was super fucking sad (everyone was). And sure, he was in a different dimension while his brother was missing. But you can't win 'em all. That was what he kept telling himself. Otherwise, he'd transmute himself again, just to see if it'd work (he knew it wouldn't, that was the problem). Mostly, it was alright because he had some form of clarity. Most of the day he was confined to the hospital ward, bedridden and bored as all hell, but on occasion he was allowed some fresh air (which wasn't fresh at all because it was the fucking corridors). And on even rarer occasion he was allowed entrance into the library. Pince gave him dirty looks which he enjoyed smiling back at. Old bitch could burn in hell...Maybe he was a little crabby. It was hard being by yourself in a place like this. And he could tell the other students weren't much better off.

Hermione came to him about once a day, bearing gifts of books when he couldn't make it down himself. What a godsend. She never stayed to chat anymore, though, just looked a little nervous, asked him how he was doing, and ran off. Probably confused after Harry's temper tantrum. He didn't blame her. Nor did he care that much (a lie) - he had places to be, things to do. Friends weren't a part of that, not here anyways.

No, things didn't get bad until it was time to go to the Burrow. It was on the train, really, that he noticed. The trio, however distant, had been nice enough to get him there. It was fucking embarrassing, having to use the wheelchair, and he made belligerent eye contact with anyone who threatened to pity him as Hermione carefully pushed him to the train platform. It was no small feat to actually get him in the damned thing, but that was a story for never.

He was just glad when they settled into a compartment and he could magic his chair away. He felt dizzy, sweaty. His head leaned back against the upright seats and despite himself, he grimaced.

"How did you do that?"

The voice was Hermione's. He opened his eyes and looked to his left at her awed face. The sunlight caught golden in wisps of her frizzy hair, bouncing all around the compartment's flat surfaces.

"Uh. Do what?"

Ron's finger pointed to where the chair had been. "The wheel chair, mate. You didn't…"

"You didn't use a spell," finished Harry. "Or a wand." There was that mounting suspicion again. God, what a pleasant guy.

He was getting really sweaty now, and he hoped they didn't think he was nervous. He wasn't. Really. It was just one million degrees in the cabin and his skin was stinging and also he was kind of dizzy, but it was fine. Probably nothing.

"I just mumbled it," he insisted weakly, brow furrowing and head hitting the back of the seat once more. It didn't feel like holding itself up anymore. Shit. How many times was he going to pass out this week? Fighting himself, he maintained a swimming consciousness.

The trio shot each other those stupid _looks_ again - the 'you're really fucking suspicious but we think you don't know that.' Ugh, he was even crabbier than usual. He pinched the bridge of his nose with cold, cold automail, shrugging his glove off easily. It wasn't like him to show weakness like this. Something was wrong (clearly).

"Are you alright, Edward?" Hermione again. Did she ever shut up?

 _She helped keep you alive_ , he reminded himself. _Don't be a dick._

Better to be honest than cause anymore confrontation. "Okay, don't freak out but my intestines may or may not be infected."

There was a sharp silence. He didn't know silence could be sharp but hey, there was a first time for everything. He would've loved to celebrate but just then a sharp pain unlike any other (actually, kind of like having his leg ripped off his body) racked through his side and he had to take a hissing breath, remember how to breathe at all. Things went white. They went black. He opened his eyes and gold spots filtered in. It was a goddamned rainbow. There were three very concerned faces looking upon him. He realized they'd been saying things when his hearing decided to pop back in, like resurfacing from water.

"This is worse than I thought," Hermione was saying.

"Maybe we should just get someone to apparate him to-"

"No, he'd split in _half_."

The second of the stabbing pains made itself known but he had a better handle on it this time.

"How long until you can get your parent's things?" Harry - it was Harry's voice.

"I can bring them back as soon as possible. It's the train ride I'm worried about."

"Bloody hell, look!"

Bloody hell indeed, thought Ed as he held a shaking hand over his mouth. It was the flesh one - easier to clean blood off of. He'd learned the hard way that it never really came out of all the nooks and crevices of the metal one. Old trophies ingrained into his body until Winry shrieked at him while cleaning them out, each droplet of crimson. He never had the heart to tell her that most of it was his own.

They'd probably name the compartment after him if he died in it. Then he'd really be a part of this world forever, assuming it didn't get destroyed, that is. No, he wouldn't die. He could still hear their frantic voices, faraway. But still. Not good, not good, not good. He focused hard, trying to bring them back, trying to fight out against infection which was impossible but somehow he would do it. He was the _Fullmetal Alchemist_ for god's sake. That really meant nothing in the face of the god he knew.

He sucked in his first rattling breath and realized that it had been too long since the last. The vision was sharp, returning with clarity. Hearing still had a ways to go, but it was coming. The pain, for now, had dulled. And he soon realized why.

Hermione was white as a sheet. Ron and Harry were both standing. The compartment door was open and Neville had a gaping expression, some blonde haired girl not far behind him.

"I'd just wanted to ask whether you'd seen my wand…" said Neville, watching a panting Edward with the most distraught face he'd ever seen.

"...'Ione," said Ron, feebly. "What did you…"

Edward saw that she had her own wand raised in her hand, and was staring at him fixedly. Still pale. Still shaking.

"I vanished the blood from his throat," she said meekly.

The cabin fell silent again. Edward clutched his stomach and wondered just how bad it'd really gotten. If it'd hit his throat, then bad. Really fucking bad. He hadn't been able to eat in a while, either. He had two days like this at best. Two days.

"Neville," Harry said meaningfully, nodding his head towards the door with raised eyebrows.

"Oh," said Neville, realizing that this was a little private. "Sorry, I-I'll ask around elsewhere."

The door shut harshly. The four of them stared at each other. Ed was grinning but only a little and only because he was afraid. Really fucking afraid. He was really in motherfucking Magic Land - he was going to die here. No. No, he'd already established that he wouldn't. He just had an infection, that was all.

"As long as you can do that again, we should be able to make it to the Burrow just fine," croaked Edward.

Seconds passed.

"You've actually lost it," Ron breathed into the open air.

Edward had to disagree. He was still very much clinging to the sanity that he'd earned over the years. If seeing his mother's mutilated corpse - well, not his mother, he reminded himself - didn't do him in, then this couldn't even land a scratch. God, at least he'd had the good sense to seal his abdominal aorta - if not, then he'd most definitely have died in minutes. Of _course_ that'd been right where the beam went through. He hadn't realized just how close he'd come to dying right then and there until now...it would have been _seconds_ , actually. He hadn't just nicked, the aorta, he'd _burst_ it. He was a goner. He _should_ be dead. He grimaced. On the brightside, it was just a little leak now...He had time.

"Ed." Harry addressed him with a clear, sharp voice. They locked eyes. "What happened?"

Here's where it got tricky. He wasn't sure what parts of himself to reveal to this world. If he made as much of a public impact as he had in Amestris...then he'd never be forgotten. And that was bad, he thought. It meant there'd always be something of him lingering here and he didn't like that at all. So he had to try and be less dramatic. Of course, that was a little difficult right now. But maybe toning down the mystery would help. Yeah - he'd let them know how he'd gotten like this (very loosely), but he'd keep the military, alchemy, and trans-dimensional travelling on lock. He could say the same thing he told everyone else for the limbs: war.

"I was in an accident back home. Fell off a high place onto a stupid support beam."

Their collective winces didn't make him feel any better. He was going to lose clarity soon, he knew that much. His body had undergone too much trauma; it would be like when he'd undergone automail surgery - fervent pain and nightmares for weeks. Guilt. Searing heat, filthy skin. A feverish haze where he didn't know what was up and what was down. The looming idea filled his soul with a sense of terrible dread.

"What kind of accident?" Harry persisted. "They said it was dark magic."

Fuck. He'd forgotten about that. How had he forgotten about that? Well he'd never been a great liar, that much wasn't new. Avoidance was key.

He pretended to have another fit, doubling over just to induce pain. Hermione gasped, left a gentle hand on his shoulder. Ron had leaned forward, but Harry just watched him.

"Hnnng. Can we talk about this later?" he hissed through grit teeth.

He got his wish. They all tried to relax and at some point, he must have fallen asleep, because he woke with an uncomfortable wetness under his shirt and worried looks all around. They'd been talking about him. He couldn't say he was surprised.

* * *

He woke up in a bed. Not unusual. The crowd of people was.

Well, not so much a _crowd_ \- it was a party of four; Mrs. Weasley, that Lupin guy, some girl standing very closely to that Lupin guy, and, lastly, Mr. Weasley. God, he'd thought Mr. Weasley was so nice. It'd been a shock after the memories of Hohenheim - a ditzy, friendly dad. Imagine that. Edward sure couldn't.

His fingers tightened against the sheets.

"Ah, it's working," said Lupin.

So they'd woken him up somehow. Made sense. Blearily, he blinked, trying to ignore the quite overwhelming ache in his stomach and back, reaching up to rub the sleep from his eyes. Ouch, goddamnit, he always forgot to lighten the pressure on his metal hand. He frowned aggressively.

"How long?"

Sighing, he moved his hands from his eyes. It was a simple room. Dusty. Familiar. It was the Burrow, for sure, he could tell that much. His stomach was pulsating and he felt that that was very bad. Very bad indeed. This sort of weakness had never overcome him before, in his whole life, but he knew what it was building to...He'd lost too much blood in the past week.

"What, dear?" said Mrs. Weasley. She looked relieved that he'd opened his eyes at all. Then again, it was hard to tell. Her face was mostly a blur no matter how hard he cleared his eyes. His breathing hurt...raspy, slow.

"How long was I…?" He had to wheeze now, and that scared him.

"You only got here an hour ago, I'd say," Arthur filled in. His hand was on his wife's back and his wife's hands were wringing themselves.

Edward blinked, slowly. Each instance it became harder and harder to open his eyes. He fought to remember where he was. What he needed so desperately here. He hadn't even realized he'd fallen asleep again, until it was too late, until there was a screaming in his head, a soft whisper.

" _Brother?"_

* * *

It had been more difficult than she'd anticipated to secure the proper materials that Edward had requested. Even more so to remember what those had been. An IV she knew for sure, and a proper way to seal his wounds, and medical advice...Something to clean them with, a catheter she thought with a wince. It would be impossible for anyone to realistically treat him at the Burrow, and with the state that he was in, after the train…

She shook talking to her parents. They were understanding, her mother encompassing her in a soft hug, giving her that look that all mothers knew how to give. Love and worry and fear. But she had somewhere to be. Edward had collapsed when they tried to get him off the train, and he was _bleeding_. She'd done her best to extinguish whatever was choking him, but only a replenishing potion would restore his blood volume back to any kind of normal state, and she had no way of procuring that now. The more she explained to her parents, however, the more grim their expressions became.

They passed an expression of intense sadness between the two of them, and Hermione held her breath when it turned to her, too.

"You have to get him to a hospital _now_ , dear."

Her father agreed, "We have some equipment at the office, but...from the way it sounds, he has maybe a day to live without extreme medical intervention."

Hermione, trying not to cry in frustration (they'd just gotten him back, and he'd been hard to forget), bit her lip and nodded.

"Is there some reason you haven't taken him yet?" her father wanted to know.

She took a shuddering breath. "He's got...prosthetics that are unlike anything I've ever seen, really." At her parents' confused expressions, she added, "They'd raise unanswerable questions. And besides, I don't know that he has _any_ money. Or…or records...He's not even British. I don't know _where_ he comes from."

At the placating hand on her shoulder she realized she'd been gesturing in panic. The pressure was closing in - if they couldn't save him then his life was on their hands. And yet she was realizing now how very, very little they knew about him at all. Realizing how much they _needed_ to know.

"I think," said her mother, "that you have no other choice if you want him to live."

She was right. Hermione closed her eyes, breathed heavily again. And opened them with a nod of determination.

Their goodbye had been regretfully quick. Another hug. Wiped eyes from Hermione. A proud smile from the both of them, and then she was gone.

Soon enough, the Burrow was in sight, leaning and tall and comforting to the sight for all its horrible ugliness. Much of the wizarding world was like that. Homely and displeasing to the eye all the same, but that was what made it so charming. The front door opened before she'd even made it to the front step, Mrs. Weasley behind it and looking like she was losing her own child. A pang of guilt filtered through Hermione's heart. If she'd insisted earlier...No, there was no time for that. She smiled at Mrs. Weasley and set her things down, ushered along with, "Come along, dear, come along."

Hermione finally got to get a good look at her in the low light of the Burrow. It wasn't great; the wrinkles in her face were more pronounced, the ruddiness flushed, her eyes downcast and sagging with the weight of the world. Filtering light from the window passed with a cloud, taking with it her view and just as suddenly Mrs. Weasley turned to head up the stairs.

"It's not good," she told her on the way, Hermione keeping up two steps at a time.

"Not good how?" She was afraid to ask.

"He…" Abruptly, the woman stopped on the stairs and the younger girl had to keep herself from running into her. "He's gone delirious I think."

Hermione braced herself. It was good, in a way, all that they'd been through - it had taught her how to square her shoulders and prepare for the roughest moments. Like Dumbledore...and losing a faraway friend. She brushed past Mrs. Weasley, nearly running, to stop at the first open door, cries clearly emanating from the room.

It had gotten worse, somehow. Brow furrowed, she made it to his bedside, past the few adults, clearly in a heated discussion. It had ceased as soon as she'd entered, but she didn't really care at this point. She pressed the back of her hand to his head lightly.

"Oh no," came her whimpered mutter. It was searing hot.

"What'd they say, Hermione?" asked Lupin, carefully.

She turned to him. Hesitated. "That he'll...die," she swallowed, "if we don't get him to a proper muggle hospital before tomorrow."

The whole room had stiffened. Molly choked a little, Arthur comforting her all the more tightly. Tonks and Lupin looked sympathetic, but they hadn't been around when Edward was. It was understandable of them to be distant. Her gaze turned back to Edward.

He was white as a sheet, and quite frankly, it was terrifying to look at. The black circles beneath his eyes stood out, as even his lips were pale and devoid of all color. Sweat traced down the alabaster, dirtying his already mussed hair. Every so often his mouth would twitch, muttering something without any noise at all, and she knew that he was caught deep within the depths of a nasty fever. The cries had stopped for now.

Into the silence she spoke, "I know none of us can stay with him, what with Harry arriving in just a few days."

And then she turned with pleading eyes. "But is there _anyone_ else? Just for when Harry comes?"

Ginny stuck her head into the doorway, grinning. "I can take care of him."

* * *

"So," said Remus, sipping his tea. "Who... _is_ he?" He sounded almost afraid to ask, but Hermione understood that. The past few days had been a rollercoaster even without Ed, but when he was added to the mix...It was almost too much.

She leaned back in her chair. Molly and Ginny were still shouting in the other room, Arthur a witness, but she was confident in Ginny's ability to win. Tonks, too, seemed interested in what Hermione had to say next.

"He attended Hogwarts first year. Lived with Molly and Arthur." One hand scratched at the back of her neck. The reflection that rippled through her tea looked worn and tired. "But he vanished at the end of the year."

"Vanished?" asked Tonks.

"He told us - when he came back, that is - that his father had found him, finally." At their inquisitive looks, she clarified, "He'd thought he was an orphan. Didn't have any memory or family, didn't even know what a wizard _was_."

"...I see."

"I know how it sounds, and that it's been almost six years, but he was important to us, at the time. I mean, he still is, but-"

Remus held up a placating hand, very weakly smiling. "You don't have to justify us helping him. None of us want to see any child hurt, mystifying or not."

She nodded, smiled back. "Thanks, really."

"Right. Then it appears the shouting has stopped, perhaps we should get to moving him."

He was correct - Ginny and Mrs. Weasley's thunderous voices had ceased and, right on time, Ginny stalked into the kitchen with a weary but triumphant look, hands on her hips. At Hermione's inquisitive gaze, she simply nodded. The room sank with relief. Here came the hard part.

When they reconvened in Edward's room, he already looked worse. The muttering had raised in volume, but still lacked coherency. No… There were some words that she could pick out, but she didn't like them at all.

"Alphonse...Don't take him...Please - he's all I have left…"

He'd seemed so confident, so unbeatable at Hogwarts, solid even as his eyes twitched with pain and his body deteriorated before them. Now those shields were down and she much preferred them up.

They all shared one long look, her and Remus and Tonks and Ginny. Then they turned to the task at hand.

"We'll have to remove his limbs," she said.

Which meant taking off his clothes. Sighing, she moved to strip his shoes, pulling off the rubber-soled boots with much difficulty. The rest of the room took the cue and shrugged off his thick jacket, then there was hesitancy. It just felt so invasive to remove his last guards. But it was something they had to do. She watched as Remus lifted his shirt, fabric sticking. And tried very hard to not gag.

It was very very bad. She wasn't sure how he was still alive. His stitches had, predictably split, and blood, pus, and what she really really really hoped wasn't intestinal lining had spilled forth from the massive wound. The skin around it was dying and pale colored. Bruises lay in places bruises shouldn't, remnants of trapped blood. His figure, which would have otherwise been suspiciously impressive, was probably the only reason he was alive - thick muscle tissue. They all swallowed their disgust and kept moving, stripping his pants last and finally getting a good look at the two appendages.

"Merlin," said Ginny. "It looks like they were ripped off, judging by the scars."

Astute. And terrible. The jagged lines of white tissue were jarring, but she mustered courage and moved to feel around the base of his arm. Enough fiddling revealed a latch at its base and experimentally, she pressed down.

Despite herself, she gave a yelp as it popped clean off and into her arms, heavy as a small child. The worst part was Edward's reaction - even through the fever haze, he tensed and grunted, thrashing for a bit in a way that couldn't be good for the wound before settling.

"D'you think that hurt?" asked Tonks. Hermione just started flatly.

"Alright, uh...Remus," she said, embarrassed. "Could you get the leg? It's in a bit of an...awkward position."

They couldn't see the top of it with his boxers on.

He breathed. Smiled very tensely. "Why don't you three step out of the room?"

They all willingly complied. Eventually, they had both limbs safely away, but there were still a few problems. Namely, it looked like he'd been tortured in some way - jagged bits of metal stuck out of the base of his arm and leg, swollen flesh having moved to grow around them. And the scars were horrendous. And how were they to explain the stab wound? There might be fair bit of obliviating at the end of it all, she feared, though it would be difficult to truly get him out.

"We can drop him off at the hospital, but we have to leave soon after, I'm afraid," said Lupin.

"That's great," she breathed. "The rest of us can take shifts until we go to get Harry, then Ginny…" She gave the girl a glance and earned a nod in return, which soothed her nerves.

"Great," she repeated. "Where's Ron?"

"He couldn't stand the blood," said Ginny. "Probably in his room. An oblivious git, he is."

Rolling her eyes, Hermione looked towards the door. It was an interesting process to watch them levitate him all the way outside without injury. She watched from the front step then as they all gave one last smile and apparated outside the wards, exhausted and worried. Yes, things would have been much easier without all of this. At least Mad-eye hadn't caught word of him (yet).

As she turned back into the kitchen, she saw Ron coming down the stairs, scratching underneath his shirt. His head tilted in confusion.

"Where'd they all go?"

* * *

 **Might seem boring, but I figure with how much Ed aged in between Baschool and the Promised Day, it took a long fucking time to recover. Which makes sense. I've got something planned, though, so expect updates much sooner.**


End file.
